In the secret world, time flowed faster.

"Mother of the World, this is the altar you requested…"

On the outskirts of a sprawling city, hidden deep within a sealed valley, Trulgren stood atop a massive altar carved with ancient demonic runes. As the leader of the ceremony, he raised his hands with solemn reverence, his eyes burning with a fanatical light. Before him, a ritual on a grand scale was about to begin, a ceremony said to reach the will of the Mother of the World herself.

Hundreds of people knelt before the altar. Their wrists and ankles were bound by runic chains that glowed faintly with crimson light. Their terrified gasps and muffled cries filled the air.

That fact alone made the ritual an abomination.

In this world, offerings to the Mother of the World were symbolic, bloodless and purified. To offer living beings was to mock the divine law. Any who dared attempt it would be condemned as heretics and burned alive for blasphemy.

But this was not a sacrifice to the true Mother of the World.

Below the altar, dozens of powerful figures gathered. They were foreigners of varying races and ages, each dressed in fine silks or polished armor. Some were wealthy merchants, others were battle-worn generals, and a few were even born into royal blood. All of them stood in tense silence, their gazes locked on Trulgren with complex expressions, regret, greed, curiosity, fear, and envy blending into one.

They were the ones who had gathered these sacrifices.

Every captive on the altar had been delivered by their hands. Trulgren had drawn them in one by one, whispering promises that fed their darkest desires. And they, in turn, had obeyed him.

He turned from the altar, his shadow falling across the assembled crowd. His lips curved into a chilling smile.

That smile made the onlookers flinch.

"Hey, you little bastard!" one of them shouted. A bloated man draped in gold and silver raised a trembling hand, his jeweled rings catching the torchlight. "Why did you stop the ritual? The power I was promised, it hasn't come yet!"

He was the richest man in his city, a merchant who owned half its land and half its secrets. Yet for all his wealth, he was weak. He had made countless offerings to the true Mother of the World, spending fortunes in search of divine blessing, but received nothing. In a society ruled by strength, wealth without power was a death sentence.

So when Trulgren showed and promised him real strength, he agreed greedily.

"You're not lying to us, are you?" another voice cut through the air.

This one came from a towering man with a soldier's bearing, his armor still stained from battle. He was a decorated general, a living legend among his kind. Power and riches he already had in abundance, but his life was fading. The glow in his eyes had dimmed, the breath in his lungs growing weaker by the day. He had heard his own sons whispering in secret, arguing over who would inherit his titles once he died.

He, too, had listened to Trulgren's promises, and clung to them like a drowning man to driftwood.

"If you're playing games with us," the general said coldly, "you know what happens next."

"Be smart, boy," another warned. "Don't try to outwit us."

Others joined in, muttering threats, their voices low and overlapping. Every one of them had prepared for betrayal. If Trulgren failed to deliver, they would erase him, tear out his tongue, burn his body, and scatter his ashes. They knew how blasphemous even seeing such a ritual was.

Trulgren merely smiled wider.

"Of course not, my lords," he said softly. "The sacrifice is complete."

A ripple of confusion spread through the crowd.

"Complete?" the merchant scoffed. "Nothing's happened."

Trulgren's gaze deepened, his tone turning almost reverent. "The will of the Mother of the World has already reached me."

Then the air shifted.

A suffocating force flooded the chamber, pressing down on every living being. Even the strongest among them fell to their knees, trembling.

The general's face turned pale. "This aura…" he gasped. He could feel it more clearly than the others, a presence powerful enough to crush his soul with a thought. Just the echo of it distorted his own spirit.

On the altar, the bound captives began to scream.

Their wails tore through the darkness, raw and unbearable. Their flesh convulsed, their skin darkening into shades of crimson and black. Their souls were being dragged from their bodies.

As their spirits vanished, their bodies melted into black-red sludge. The mass pulsed and churned, then began to form spinning vortices, each glowing faintly with a demonic light.

But the ritual was not yet over.

Trulgren stepped forward, his expression eerily calm.

At the center of the altar, the dark and crimson fluids gathered together, merging into a growing pool. A wisp of shadow descended from above, threading itself into the mass like a vein of living darkness.

The pool trembled…and then solidified into a cocoon.

Black and red patterns crawled across its shell like veins.

Trulgren placed his hand upon it gently, as if greeting an old friend. Then he turned to the trembling nobles below and smiled.

"This secret sacrifice…" he said slowly. "It's over."

He spread his arms toward the cocoon, which began to pulse and writhe as if something inside were trying to awaken.

"Come," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "Claim your rewards."

Behind him, the demon cocoon began to move, its surface twisting and splitting like living flesh.

"Ah… this.."

The people below the altar stared at one another in stunned confusion.

What unfolded before them was beyond expectation. The black and red whirlpools hovering in the air, the pulsing cocoon that radiated malevolent energy, the suffocating aura that filled the chamber, all of it defied their beliefs and reason. For a moment, they even forgot why they had come.

Trulgren turned slowly, his voice low and mocking. "What's wrong? Aren't these blessings from the Mother of the World exactly what you desired?"

He stepped toward one of the swirling black and red vortices. A faint hum rose from it, thick with the scent of life itself. "This," Trulgren said softly, brushing his hand along its surface, "is the vitality you long for."

Then, with deliberate calm, he pushed the vortex toward the general.

The general caught it with trembling hands, his face pale. The sight of it filled him not with hope, but dread.

Because he understood.

He, more than any of the others, knew what the Mother of the World truly was, the living consciousness of this world itself. She was one and many. The beginning and the end. The nameless God that gave birth to all things and would one day consume them again.

Her power was vast, but her rules were unchanging.

No living creature could be offered as a sacrifice. No evil could be traded for blessing. Her gifts were pure.

…and her mercy was limited.

And this… this ritual broke every one of her laws.

The aura in the air was not divine. It was cold and suffocating. What Trulgren had summoned was no reflection of the Mother of the World—, it was something else, something that fed on her image.

The general's hands shook violently as he stared at the vortex of black and red light. His voice came out as a whisper, as if he finally realized what they'd done. "This… this is blasphemy. Against her. Against the world itself…"

"Why," Trulgren asked, his tone sharp as a blade, "don't you want it anymore?"

Under the wavering oil lamps, his face was half-swallowed by shadow. The light revealed nothing of his expression.

"I…" The general's throat tightened. Words failed him.

Before he could decide, one of the men beside him, a priest draped in the holy garb of the Mother of the World, suddenly crushed the vortex he held. He could no longer restrain himself.

A scream ripped through the chamber.

Everyone recoiled and when they looked back, the priest was kneeling, trembling, his body radiating a strange light.

"Th-this… this knowledge—" he gasped, clutching his head. His voice was hoarse, ecstatic. "It's magnificent!"

The man tore the sacred necklace from his neck and threw it to the ground. "Oh heavens… I can see it! The stars, the universe, life itself! The rules, the truth of the world! So that's what it means… that's what it all means!"

His eyes had gone glassy, wild with revelation.

The others froze, realization dawning in their minds.

The moment someone takes the first step, the rest will follow.

One by one, the others began crushing their own vortices.

The rich merchant was next. "It's real… it's really real!" he shouted as power surged through his veins. His bloated frame began to shimmer with unnatural strength.

Then came the third, the fourth, the fifth…

Power, knowledge, beauty, vitality, whatever they desired, the black and red vortices gave it to them. Every secret craving was answered, every human weakness indulged.

The chamber filled with cries of awe and laughter, trembling voices that no longer belonged to mortals.

Trulgren stood at the center of it all, smiling faintly, like a conductor leading an orchestra of damnation. His gaze fell on the last man still hesitating, the general.

"What about you, General?" he asked quietly.

The general stiffened. He could feel it, the danger closing in. But it didn't come from the vortex in his hands, or from the being Trulgren served. It came from the people around him.

Those same nobles and priests who, moments ago, had shared in his doubts now stared at him with new eyes.

He understood immediately.

If he refused the gift, he would not live to see the next sunrise.

A hollow laugh escaped him. "Heh… fine."

He crushed the vortex.

Light and shadow burst from his palms. His snow-white hair turned black again, his wrinkled face smoothed, his arms filled with strength. Blood roared through his veins like a river breaking through a dam.

"This is… a miracle," he whispered.

In an instant, his hesitation vanished. His devotion to the Mother of the World dissolved like smoke. What was faith compared to this?

He fell to his knees before the altar, before the symbol of the demon prince Fabudi etched upon the stone.

The others followed. One after another, the nobles, priests, and merchants knelt in unison, bowing not to the Mother of the World, but to the black and red cocoon pulsing on the altar.

At that moment, they ceased to be worshippers of the divine. They became disciples of the abyss.

And from that night forward, whispers began to spread across the sacrificial world.

Stories of a new revelation. of a "true" Mother of the World awakening from her slumber. Unlike the old one, she would bless all who came to her. She would grant any wish, fulfill any desire, and ask nothing but sacrifice in return.

The Stories spread like wildfire.

Cities fell under the sway of the false Mother. Rituals grew darker, sacrifices more grotesque. Strange creatures began to appear in places touched by corruption.

It was the beginning of "the worship of demons".

For Gaia and the figure-8 world, everything was now heading toward the worst possible end.

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